


polished iron and silver

by buffering



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of a limb, Medical trauma??, No Dialogue, Oneshot, Post-Trespasser, Short, Spoilers, Trespasser Spoilers, short oneshot, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:28:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27122509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffering/pseuds/buffering
Summary: On good days, you can barely tell the difference between where your flesh ends and the metal begins.Or, a small piece on Lavellan's limb loss.
Relationships: Lavellan/Iron Bull
Kudos: 3





	polished iron and silver

**Author's Note:**

> I found this just sitting in one of my notebooks and figured maybe someone would enjoy it?? Idk anymore man.  
> Lavellan goes without pronouns, but it's mentioned they're a rogue that uses daggers, and the Inquisition was disbanded. The romance is barely even mentioned as well, so if you're looking for smut this ain't it. Also, vague(ish) description on losing an arm.
> 
> Also, the end is a bit shit. I am sorry. 
> 
> ~Hope you enjoy!~

Some days, you can still feel it.

Dagna was kind enough, skilled enough, to help make you a prosthetic, smooth and made of polished iron and silver. You have to tell yourself every day it's a part of you, that despite how different it is from you it is you. You can still fight with your knives, although it's a work in progress. On good days, you can barely tell the difference between where your flesh ends and the metal begins. For a moment, you can forget the mark is gone and so is Solas or Fen'Harel or whatever his name is now. You don't _need_ to fight anymore, considering the Inquisition is disbanded and you've fought more than enough in your short life, but it gives you some sort of routine to follow. Keeps your head on your shoulders, gives you something basic to fall back on. 

And then there are the days when you can still feel it, the Fade crackling in your palm as you collapse in agony because this is more than magic, and not even the Keepers in your clan had stories like this. You got to reach out and nothing happens, and then you remember half your arm is gone because it was _sawed off_ because the Mark was eating you away. It's a blurred haze of raw agony, of hands holding you down as you writhed on the ground, of blood making whoever was holding your arm down hand's slick and slippery. You can imagine someone was speaking, apologizing, or something like that, but you couldn't hear them over the screams crawling up your throat. 

On those days, when you got to practice with your daggers, half the time you want to just throw them as far away from you and scream as you did back then. You're off balance, the prosthetic is heavier than it should be, you can't do anything for yourself. You're defenseless, and suddenly you're thrown back to hearing your clan was massacred and how you weren't allowed to grieve for them. You're held by an arm, the one that's _missing_ , by Corphyeus as he talks and talks and all you want to do is kick him in the face but you are terrified because you are going to die here. You're wandering through deep snow, ears ringing and a concussion beating your skull with a hammer, and you know no one will find you because no one really cares, not really. 

You undo straps and all as you go the throw the fucking prosthetic ( _your new arm_ ) to the ground. You stop yourself just before because as satisfying as it would be to slam it into the earth you'd rather not break it. A breath. Two breaths. Your stump hurts.

Ah, yes. The painful days, the ones where you can still feel the Mark's power ghost your nonexistent flesh, when you can only curl up in blankets and swallow screams, when your face is wet with more than sweat. There are always large hands on your small shoulders though, with quiet Qunlat being whispered, and despite everything, you know that you are loved. Not just by The Iron Bull, of course, because the pile of letters you've collected over the years begs to differ. They help on shit days and make you feel lighter on good days. You hope they all know how much they mean to you, the letters and the people. You've never said it out loud, not really. Maybe you should.


End file.
